


The Daughters of Rain and Snow

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [16]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Kissing, Loyalty, Marriage, Mild Language, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byakuya discusses the family business with his cousin. Renji must cope with the fallout of an escaped secret. Byakuya considers who will become his next Vice Captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daughters of Rain and Snow

"And, here, the elders thought she had suffered  _another tragedy_ ."

Byakuya's gaze, languid and bleary, drifts up. It is his first cousin twice removed, Asagao. There is a hint of scandal in her voice, and he finds the lilting upward infliction  _unnecessary_. Not that it surprises him. The clan had relished Hisana's inability to conceive, and, now, during what should be considered a blessing, his family has turned cold and brooding. Hisana's pregnancy has declared their fun over. For now.

For a moment, he observes Asagao. The lenses of his eyes struggle to bring her face into focus. Hours of staring at numbers must have blinded him; however, a few hard blinks bring him some relief. Reaching for his composure, he thinks he must look flustered, like a bird sloughing raindrops from its feathers.

His cousin, however, is perfectly serene, sitting across from him, wrapped in layers of brightly colored finery. Her eyes are clear and probing, and her features are angular and patrician, just like all Kuchiki. She is his junior by a few decades. She seems even younger.

His stare hardens. Silently, he demands that she either apologize or explain herself. He will not suffer such unspoken malcontent against his wife or his unborn children.

Reading his look well, Asagao inclines her head. A curious tilt betokens the devious thoughts playing through her head, but she minds her manners better than most of the others. He appreciates her self-control. It is a rare virtue among his family.

Arching a black brow, she expounds on her previous sentiments, "No one has seen her in many moons, milord. You keep her cloistered away from everyone's gaze. The elders speculate—"

"The elders speculate where silence would do them better," he states in a crisp, agitated tone before returning to the expense report.

Asagao smirks, finding amusement in his clipped cadence and fiery dismissal. The rumors are all true, she must think. Their Lord is laconic and candid. Painfully so.

Whatever she may think, she pushes it aside and continues. "True, but it does raise a valid point, milord." A meaningful silence punctures her observation as she pauses to take a small sip of tea.

He can sense that she is preparing herself for his rebuke. The playful glint that shines in her eyes is a dead giveaway.

Why does she intend to irritate him so?

With a shake of his head, he deigns to indulge that hideous glint. "And what _point_  might that be?" His capitulation comes in a low rumbling tenor.

"It is unnatural to keep the Lady away from those who love her."

He sneers at the disingenuousness of her premise. "Those who love her are free to admire her  _currently_."

Asagao is quick to conceal a wry grin behind her teacup. Allowing his words to simmer in the air a moment longer, she draws in the warm fragrant liquid before meeting his observation with one of her own. "I would say the Lady has more admirers than milord credits. The imminence of an heir seems to inspire an outpouring of affection."

Glancing up from the report, he does his best to repress the skepticism that broadcasts across his face. As much as he wishes to believe his cousin's assessment, he cannot. Reason and experience beat him down. His family's motives, where they concern his wife, remain forever tarnished in his mind, and he would sooner die than chance harm to his budding family.

"An outpouring of  _affectation_ , you mean," he dismisses her with a cool look.

A sleeved hand reaches into a pocket and retrieves a small wrapped parcel. "A token of  _my_  affection, milord. It has been a pleasure representing the family's business interests, and I hope to meet Lady Kuchiki to discuss her investments. If these numbers are any indication, I dare say she possesses a keen intellect."

He accepts the offering with a muted scowl and a disaffected stare. Reflexively, the gift is at his side, near his knee, where he does not spare it a second glance.

"Promise me that you  _will_  present it to the Lady. I know of your inclination to discard the family's gifts."

He throws an icy glare her way. The family has never given him a reason  _not_ to question their motives where his wife is their target. "What is it?" he digresses, refusing to make any promises. He does not even attempt to hide the condition inherent to his inquiry.

Asagao buries a chuckle deep in the silk of her sleeve. "How shall the family  _ever manage_  a relationship with the future mother of our heirs when you are so bent on keeping us apart?"

A valid question, he concedes. It is one for which he has no ready-made response. Instead of admitting defeat, however, he replies with a scowl and a half-hearted, "We shall see."

"Milord," she says, pleadingly, "you cannot be so cruel as to keep us from the babies."

Reflexively, his eyes harden into a glare, and he frowns. She used the  _plural_ —bab _ies_. Only a handful of souls know of the nature of his wife's pregnancy. How does she? And, how far has this knowledge spread across his family? Probably like wildfire.

His heart drops at the thought of his aunt. Masuyo has been inconsolable since she learned of Hisana's gravidity. When was the last time he saw his aunt poised? Her eyes free of tears? The extent and completeness of her misery is as disgraceful as it is awe-inspiring.

If she learns of the  _twins_ , her heart will burst. Maybe it already has? Maybe she is dead. Gone. Lost to the ages.

A small private smile thins his lips. He fancies it imperceptible, but Asagao is more astute than he initially assessed.

"Your family's suffering should not be a source of amusement, milord!" she teases, feigning indignation with great flare.

"Who is aware of my wife's pregnancy?"

She stares at him as if he has gone daft. "All of the living, milord!"

He pins her with a cold stare, willing her to reexamine his question. "Who knows she is with twins?"

Asagao purses her lips together; it is a vain effort on her part to smother the wolfish grin that twists the corners of her mouth. "The elders, mostly. Very few members outside the magic circle are aware. Auntie Masuyo insists on keeping it very hush-hush." Her lips suddenly snap shut as she pauses to collect her thoughts. A few moments of staring into the middle distance later, she returns, eyes bright and lips curved into a sneer. "You know," she begins again, voice crackling and dark, but, in an instant, she dismisses her unspoken musing with a languid wave of the hand. "She is old."

His eyes flick up, and he shakes his head. Asagao doesn't need to spell it out for him. He knows. Internally, he can feel the words locked behind her devilish glances.

How typical. Of course, his aunt would instruct the branch families to keep this information quiet. Not out of honor. Not out of respect. No, it is merely tongue tied to superstition.

"It seems efficient, I think." Asagao's sing-song cadence breaks through his thoughts, shattering his musing to tiny fragments.

Byakuya cocks a brow, urging her to proceed.

"Bearing the heir and the spare in one go while she is still young. How fortuitous!" she chuckles.

"The others do not agree," he is quick to note.

Asagao smiles at his curtness. "Auntie does not. Her sobs are more riotous than before. Although, that is to be expected. She's crying for two, now. The others? They don't seem preoccupied with the irrational beliefs associated with bearing twins."

A relief.

At least his wife will not be forced to bear the shame of sham birth certificates. He would stand by her decision either way, but he would never require it. Another rule most certainly broken, but, at least this time, dumb nature has done the deed.

"You promise me, Lord Kuchiki, you  _will_  give your wife my gift. I will inquire after it. I can be incredibly persistent." She flashes a smile—imagining herself quite charming, he is certain.

His gaze trails to the parcel at his knee. He will take it under consideration. For now, it will remain with him. If his mood settles, perhaps he will ask a servant to inspect it for appropriateness, which is more consideration than he gives to most of the family members who seek to make amends.

"I will need to speak to the Lady later this week." It is permission wrapped up in innocuous observation. Yet, she braces herself for the sting of his refusal all the same.

"No."

Asagao clenches her jaw, but she continues, undeterred. "The Central Chambers has issued a subpoena for documents. If I am going to fulfill the request, I need to—"

"Send the subpoena to me. I will ensure our obligations are satisfied."

"Lord Kuchiki," she pleads, soothingly. Reading the hard lines of his face, she pauses, presses her lips together, and swallows. It does not take long for her to regroup. Her final bid is as uninspiring as the last: "I must speak with the Lady at some point." Her voice sheds its ebullience, and it drops a few octaves. "She has the family's assets wrapped up so tight, milord, I required Sir Ise's assistance with an accounting. I don't understand the half of it. Nobody does. Nobody—that is—except  _your wife._ "

The plea does not put a dent in his rock-hard resolve. "Any further matters to discuss?" There is a razor-sharp edge to his voice; one that she does not dare to question lest it cut her.

Her chin inclines slightly, as if she is contemplating her next move. Coming up empty, she concedes defeat, "No, milord."

He does not miss the frown that bends her lips or the displeasure that paints her features as she stands to take her leave.

Halting in front of the door, she turns to him. A grave expression wrinkles the delicate lines of her visage. "Please," she murmurs, eyes fixing the gift at his knee, "see to it that she receives it."

Turning to his work, he waits for her to cross into the corridor before he glimpses the gift again. Why is she so insistent? he wonders.

Is it something wretched? It  _must_  be something wretched. At the very least, it will torture his wife in some way. Why else would she be so dogged?

With a summary shake of his head, he banishes his misgivings. He has better things with which to occupy his thoughts. He has a budget to prepare, trainings to schedule, duties to divvy up, meetings to attend, and patrols to make.

Peeling back the expense report, he goes numb. Intelligible thoughts just flee from his brain until he feels as vacant as his mind is empty. When he recovers from his transfixion, the words on the page begin to pierce the veil of fog that clouds his mind. It is the assignment paperwork for the Sixth's Vice Captaincy.

The form is as blank now as it was several months ago.

He has been avoiding the decision all month. But there it is, staring him down. The stark whiteness of the paper serves to remind him that he is derelict in his duty.

He is being needlessly dilatory. There are only two contenders for the position. It should be simple. The decision should have been made a month ago, at least. Despite this—despite knowing that he is being irrational—he cannot force himself to decide.

He has never been so indecisive in his whole life. Yet, indecision fills him. It sinks him. It has become the bane of his workday.

What to do?

* * *

Why in the hell did he do this?

Renji berates himself. Thoughts, violent and vitriolic, fire through his brain. Most of them are none too flattering. The others? Indecipherable. Just a loud din, really.

He shouldn't have come. Yet, there he is, slumped over the bar. Gods, even the smell of it turns his stomach—stale liquor and even staler food. It's all rotten. Every single damn piece.

Never before has every nerve in his body told him to run away with such ferocity. But, what does he do? He sits there. Like a bump on a log. About half as useful, too.

Why did he bother asking for a transfer? To the Sixth, of all places. How embarrassing. Everyone must know how desperate he is. Before, only Ikkaku and Kira knew of the challenge that he had set for himself.

But, now? Anyone could piece it together. The requests for transfers are all transparent. Anyone could find out that he applied for the vacancy at the Sixth.

 _'_ _Not that anyone would,'_  the more rational part of his brain reminds him, and not a moment too soon. It's not as if the Ninth would publicize that kind of information. People ask for promotions and transfers all the time, right? It's not so weird.

Except, it  _is._

No one  _leaves_  the Eleventh unless it's on a gurney or in an urn. The former group was coming back. The latter…well…everyone has to die. Might as well do it serving the Eleventh.

At least, that's the vibe he gets at the division.

Hell, why else would Ikkaku and Yumichika be around if not to serve  _the_ Kenpachi? Both could easily assume the duties of Vice Captain. One of 'em probably  _should_ ; they'd be better than  _some_  of the folks they got now. But, nope. They don't. They stay, fighting it out at the Eleventh. Because of loyalty.

_Well, fuck loyalty._

Renji shrinks down at the last thought. It sets off a cold visceral reaction. The sentiment goes against his grain. He doesn't really believe that. He is loyal. Loyal as a fucking  _dog_. If not for stupid loyalty, why else would he wage a personal war with  _status_?

Maybe for  _pride_.

It's probably  _pride_.

He takes another swig of sake, hoping it will quiet the choir of  _thoughts_  singing in his head. It doesn't. It just makes things worse. Like it always does. His head pounds. The contents in his stomach churn. Things are getting a little hazy, a little wavy, and a little more surreal.

When will he ever learn?

He perks up a little when he hears the tail end of some drunken announcement: "…all on Renji!"

Oh,  _hell_  no.

His gaze shoots to the end of the bar to find, oh _, hell_   _yes_. He has been awarded the dubious distinction of  _paying for everyone's goddamn drinks_ ….

He knew he shouldn't have come. Sometimes the heart knows better. Except, of course, when it doesn't. Like that time he applied for the vacancy at the Sixth.

"No, Renji isn't paying for nothing!" he shouts back, glaring at Ikkaku, who is sitting sloppy drunk in the corner seat.

" _Two rounds_  on Renji, then!" Ikkaku announces darkly, never one to back down from a battle.

Why bother?

He doesn't. Instead, he issues a standard ' _fuck off'_  glare in protest, and he turns to leave, but, before he can shove off his seat, a low guttural voice stops him. It is one of the Eleventh's men, a subordinate officer.

And, the question? Really fucking awful. It stops Renji dead in his tracks, and it makes him reconsider his faith in mankind.

Renji turns, stunned. And, just in case his disbelief isn't as obvious and clear as a blinking neon sign with chaser lights, he asks, "What did'ja say?"

It takes him a moment to zero in on the man at the bar. The room is spinning. His vision is swimming, and his head is throbbing. Disoriented doesn't even cover the half of it.

"You still interested in fightin' that captain?"

Who the fuck is  _this_  guy? More importantly, how the fuck did he come across  _that_  little knowledge nugget?

"What?" Renji asks again, trying to clear his head with the force of his own voice.

"I overheard you talkin' one day to Madarame. You said you wanted to take on a captain. Thought that sounded interestin'. So which one is it, again?"

Renji glowers at the man for a moment, hoping his stare will force the guy to shut his damn face. Doesn't work. The subordinate's good senses, if he ever possessed them in the first place, are as wine-soaked as Renji's. He doesn't even notice the warning signs flashing across Renji's face.

"It was that one. The noble, right?"

Before Renji can disengage in dramatic, half-drunken fashion, he turns to find another horror looming at his back.

"Yeah, Renji, which captain do you want to defeat?"

_Shit, no._

That voice. He knows that voice. It is gruff and snarky. It elicits a shudder, and, in a nanosecond, a chemical cocktail rips through his body. The numb haze of alcohol clears, and he stands in cold fright.

Cripes, how he wishes he didn't know that voice. How he wishes he had been discreet. In fact, he wishes for a lot of things right then, like sobriety and better executive functioning.

What he wouldn't give to dive under the table. Right then. Right there. Anything to escape her questioning gaze.

"Hello to you, too, Rukia," he says, hoping to deflect.

She ain't buying it.

Not a cent.

Deflection soundly rejected.

"So which captain?" Rukia reiterates and shoots him the smuggest look she's got, which is pretty damn smug. She could teach lessons at the academy on smugness.

"Six, right?" the subordinate says, finding a moment of clarity among the smoky fog of the bar. "It's the Sixth's captain. That highborn so-and-so."

Renji wheels around to glare so hard and so long at the idiot soldier that he feels his blood vessels begin to pop like little balloons. If he could, he would flay that man and serve him to a pack of rabid dogs.

"What?" Rukia calls at his back.

He hopes she didn't hear.

Prays she didn't hear.

When he turns, he knows she heard.

She stands there. Her chin presses against her neck. Her eyes are hard but questioning, sparking a sense of hope within him—hope that he can talk his way out of this one. Her lips, however, slip into a frown.

Hope regained quickly becomes hope lost.

"Brother?" The smug look that she dons so well morphs into an expression of confusion. She doesn't quite understand.

Truth be told, neither does he.

It makes sense, and it doesn't make sense, all at the same time. He could articulate it; he could write it out in verse. But, she wouldn't get it. Rukia isn't the type. She's always been a little different, always been a cut above everybody else. Even back in the day, back in the slums. She could've been declared a princess of Inuzuri or a queen of Soul Society, and no one would have batted an eye at her coronation. It would've been  _expected._ The only question would've been,  _'What took so long?'_

He stares at her, dumbstruck.

His lips twitch as he wracks his brain for an apology, but the panic that sets his muscles doesn't cease. Mortification locks him inside his head with thoughts blaring. The words, however, catch in his throat, strangling him as if he's a fish gasping for air.

Rukia surveys him, folds her arms against her chest, and, deciding the truth for herself, laughs. Hard. It is a panting kind of laughter. The type that leaves one bent over and breathless.

When his horror remits, he is left staring blankly at his childhood friend. Offense prickles him, sends a wave of umbrage rushing through his veins. The aftereffects, however, are transitory. He is quick to succumb to a sensation of relief. He is merely grateful that she does not hate him or his aspirations. He would rather she think him a fool for aiming too high than an ungrateful prick.

"That's a good one, Renji," she says, struggling to pull air. " _You…and…Brother_."

He stands there. Staring. Can't hardly process it. Can't hardly  _think_  at all.

Maybe it was pride all along.

When she straightens and composes herself, she gives him a friendly onceover. She is all pink cheeks and laughter lines as she smoothes down the wrinkles of her uniform. Glancing up at him, her gaze lingers a little longer. She sees him a little better. She gives him a little more of her attention. Deepening her look, the smile lines around her eyes diminish, her pink cheeks go pallor, and her laugher fades.

He stares at her, blankly. He isn't quite willing to play it off as a joke. Doesn't seem right. It isn't a joke. He's always been earnest in his desire to test his worth against her brother. He has to—no—he  _needs_  to prove himself. He needs to prove that he is worthy of Rukia. They need to be equals. For his sake. Stubborn pride drives him to this inevitable conclusion, and it dumps him off on the side of the road.

Her eyes widen, and she blanches. "It isn't a joke? You're serious."

Confusion quickly transforms into disgust, and disgust quickly transforms into pain.

She looks wounded—mortally wounded. His actions have betrayed him. Worse of all, they've betrayed her.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't have the chance. In a flash, she is gone.

As the barroom door flutters open, he watches the snow as it scatters into the night.

* * *

With head bowed over papers, Hisana stacks a few sheets in a small tower before leaning back into an invigorating stretch. Pregnancy has taken a toll on just how much sitting hunched over a desk that she can manage. The cracking of ligaments only confirms what she has suspected for the last few days—her body is weakening.

Her lips slope into a frown at the thought. Indeed, piece by crumbling piece, her stamina fails her. Her muscles burn and ache under the stress of pregnancy. Her body swells. It is hard to find comfort.

_How inconvenient._

She closes her eyes and exhales a deep sigh before dropping her arms to her sides. Just as she predicted, it doesn't take long until she feels the silken fur of a familiar friend, her fellow paper-pusher. "Hello, Mr. Cat," she murmurs, allowing the feline to curl around her hand and arm. The animal's precision and agility always amazes her, and she smiles as the cat takes a seat at her desk. With its gleaming yellow eyes, it stares down at her papers.

Sometimes, she swears the cat can read. It sounds stupid, and she would be the first to admit  _just how stupid_   _it sounds_. Even in her own head, the observation makes her seem like a basket case. But, she can't help but sense the animal's vast intelligence. If it weren't a cat, it would surely be a commander of some sort. A particularly clever one—one that would either get along infamously with her husband or drive him to an early grave.

Her smile broadens at the thought of that curious cat torturing Byakuya.  _How fantastic_. Finally, he would have someone to outwit him. It would be just like those stories that his steward told her—the ones with the Shihōin heiress. Oh, how she wishes she could have met Yoruichi Shihōin and picked her brain about what to do with Byakuya when he gets into one of his moods.

Gently, she runs her hand down the cat's back. It is quick to respond to her touches, pitching its spine to get the full pressure of her fingers. "Lady Shihōin…." Hisana mumbles to herself. A memory—distant and fleeting—scratches at the back of her brain. It's like an itch that she can't reach.

_There is something about Lady Shihōin and cats. What was it again?_

The cat halts mid-stride and turns to give her a meaningful sidelong gaze.

"Oh, yes, Demon Cat. That's what he called her," Hisana recalls aloud, her gaze floating up to the ceiling. "How strange." Her eyes drift to the cat. "Isn't it?"

The cat averts its attention to the stacks of papers, and, without a sound, the feline adroitly launches itself onto her desk, where it circles a stack of papers three times before promptly laying atop it. Satisfied with its decision to lounge on the desktop, it gives a long languorous yawn before retiring.

"Tired, Mr. Cat?" Hisana asks sympathetically before turning to another task. "Me too," she chatters mostly for her own benefit. "I have to get papers ready for a subpoena. You know what that is, Mr. Cat?"

The cat throws itself down on its side in dramatic fashion.

"It's pretty boring." Hisana's voice trails into the distance as her thoughts move to matters that are more intricate.

It isn't long before the cat startles. It leaps from the desk, taking cover among the shadows and discarded boxes.

Hisana barely notices it. The numbers and the words engross her. Slowly but surely, her brain locates a pattern. A disturbing feeling brews in the pit of her stomach, and it creases her brow.  _What if?_

In an instant, she feels the barometric pressure plummet.

Her hair, once swept into a loose bun, cascades down her shoulders.

He never did care for her hair in pins.

"Lord Byakuya," she attempts to sound chastising, but her voice simply won't comply, not when he is so bent on breaking her concentration and resolve. And, break it, he does.  _Magnificently._

With the careless sort of effortlessness that she has come to associate with her husband, he plays the strings of her concentration with the deftness of a master musician plucking away at a guitar. She refuses him, holding out for as long as she can. But, she's no match for his ironclad will.

The moment she feels his warmth pool around her, she knows he's won. Whatever shred of focus soon snaps free as soon as his fingers thread through her tresses, collecting her hair in a loose hold. Her locks fall long, longer than ever before. Inky tresses tumble down her shoulders all the way to her elbows.

He presses close, relishing her fragrance. How he adores her hair. So much so that she hasn't the heart to tell him about her plans to cut it once the twins are born. Given his reaction to Rukia's recently shorn locks, she anticipates he will take the news  _poorly_. The  _servants_  were more generous with their compliments than he was. In fact, he did not say a word. Not to Rukia. Not even to her. He just stared, speechless when Rukia presented herself, all wide-eyed and excited about her new look. Judging by his expression, Rukia might as well have sprouted another head.

Well, at least she is prepared for his reaction.

"Hisana," his voice sounds bladed when he takes notice of what is occupying her. He doesn't speak the remainder of his thoughts. It isn't necessary. She knows the refrain by heart:  _What did I tell you about work?_

"I am making myself useful, Lord Byakuya," she responds as if he asked the question. "Everyone should be of some use, milord. Myself included."

"You are of great use  _to me_."

"I know," she says, teasing him with an impish glance. "Look at all of the work I've done."

" _Hisana_ ," he speaks her name as a low warning, and, with disapproving coldness, he stands.

The chill at her back tells her that her husband has left her side, and she glances up. She catches him balancing her hairpin between his fingers. A playful beam lights his gray eyes as he examines her. Nothing can escape his intelligent gaze, and, with a look, he disarms her.

Wordlessly, she reaches her hand up. Her fingers unfurl to reveal an open palm. "Lord Byakuya, it is impolite to tease your wife."

He quirks a brow at this, but he refuses her gesture. Instead, he chooses to circle the room, and he shakes his head disapprovingly. "You need your rest, Hisana."

She would take umbrage at his prodding if not for the chord of worriment that sounds in his voice. It is difficult to summon the anger necessary to overcome the pureness of his intentions. He's over-protective. She knew about this particular character trait when she agreed to become his wife.

It seemed endearing  _then_.

Less so now.

Her lips stretch into a guilty grin. "Lady Asagao informed me of the subpoena."

The playful look abandons him. "Is that so?" He sounds genuinely surprised at this.

"She sent word today."

He continues to shake his head. "Naturally." His lips part as if he is preparing a well-rehearsed rebuke, but, before he can continue his thought, he stops abruptly in front of a box. Quietly, he inspects the inky shadows that sprawl across the floor.

He must've detected something curious.

Maybe it's the cat?

Now that Hisana thinks on it, Byakuya has never met Mr. Cat.

Rukia has.

Renji, too.

A few months ago, the animal made its way into the manor proper, where Rukia promptly found it and claimed it as her pet. The pair reached a mutual agreement whereby Rukia desists from domesticating it, and the cat will deign to visit her. Since then, Rukia allows it access to her private quarters whenever it occasions upon her.

But, despite its social nature, the cat flees whenever Byakuya is nearby. It is strange, really. The cat is dauntless; it possesses an indomitable spirit  _except_  when it senses her husband. At the faintest sign of his reiatsu, it abandons its bravado and runs for cover.

How peculiar.

"What is this?" he asks, voice low and meaning vague.

Before she can answer, he sets his trap. With a light tap, he knocks his foot against the wall of the box. As he anticipates, the cat snaps forward to make its escape, and he snatches it up by the scruff of its neck.

A mixture of shock and wrath set his features. Ire flares in his eyes, and, without hesitation, he promptly ejects the animal from the room with a mighty throw, the force of which sends the poor animal screaming through the air. Remnants of the cat's high-pitch cry can be heard through the door as he shuts it.

"Tell me, Hisana, how long has that  _pest_  plagued my house?"

Byakuya looks deathly serious.

"A while. Why? Do cats disturb milord?"

"Incredibly."

News to her, but she does not push the issue. She knows he is repressing his fury. She can see the tempest that blows through him. It pulls at the contours of his resolve before flooding into the room.

_But, why is he angry?_

Surely, a mere cat could not agitate him so thoroughly.

"It is nothing," he says after a weighty pause. "Come, Hisana." He leans down to help her to her feet.

"My apologies, Lord Byakuya. I was unaware of your feelings toward felines."

"Allergies," comes the weak explanation.

_Perfidy._

Glancing up, she does not detect any of the telltale signs of allergies. No runny nose. No teary eyes. No redness. No swelling.

Something is awry. She can feel it. His lips may betray her, but his reiatsu never does, and, at that moment, it engulfs them. It is searching and oppressive—almost as oppressive as the silence that follows as they meander back to the manor proper.

She has a feeling that she will never see the storage room again. On her husband's orders, the servants will lock it up. No one will ever speak of it again. At least, not around her.

The spacious Kuchiki manor grows smaller and more cramped by the day. She can almost feel the walls close in around her, smothering her. It takes every fiber of her being to quell the primal urge to escape. Her flight response is strong, instinctual, and overpowering.

"Hisana?"

He places a conciliatory hand against her shoulder. All it takes is a touch to break the spell of her anxiety. It draws her from the darkness of her own thoughts.

"Forgive me, milord." She bows. "I don't know what came over me."

Shrugging out of his haori, he is swift to drape the silk over her shoulders. Tenderly, he bundles her in the garment, the fabric of which pulls taughtly against her arms. When she looks up—eyes questioning his action—he responds with a soft, "You are shaking."

Indeed. She is. Her lips part. She is torn between speaking an apology or a platitude.

"Come," he murmurs and turns his gaze skyward. "A late spring snowstorm? How odd." Protectively, he ushers her into the warm embrace of their bedchambers.

"I don't know," she begins again, but he quiets her with a shake of his head.

"Do not worry yourself," he says, helping her out of the damp haori.

With careful hands, she returns his favor, replacing his wet uniform with a suitable alternative. Just as she about to tie the last knot, he catches her hands. His touch is tentative at first, almost feather-light. But, as soon as the muscles in her hands relax, the weight of his touch grows steadier until her fingers quiet.

Ever so gently, he brings her around to face him.

She keeps her head low. Her gaze falls to her hands, fingers still caught in the sash of his robes. As she feels the heat of his gaze pull the blood to her cheeks, she smiles. It is a soft gesture, but it is a full disclosure of her heart.

"You have never cared for the Shihakushō," he observes in a voice so quiet that she must strain to make out the words.

Her smile lengthens, but only slightly. "You seem less solemn without it, milord," she replies in earnest. Indeed, the dour shades of death never seemed to inspire more than a sense of dread in her.

Perhaps that is the point.

He slips a finger under her chin. "You prefer me less solemn?" Tenderly, he nudges her head up so he can stare into her eyes.

Her smile slips as she contemplates the meaning and purpose of his question. "I prefer milord as he is—as he prefers himself."

He presses a kiss against her forehead, and, quietly, he whispers, "I prefer myself in your company."

She blushes sweetly at his gentle confession. "As do I."

Feeling his warmth recede, she stays him with a look. "Milord has not been perfectly honest with me."

A quizzical expression clouds his visage.

"The letter from Lady Asagao detailed the subpoena, and it also notified me of a gift."

"Is that so?" he muses aloud.

"What is this gift of which she speaks?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, and he breathes a troubled sigh. Slowly but surely, tension begins to build on his face. "Allow me," he says half-heartedly before turning on his heels.

He returns a few seconds later with an ornately wrapped parcel in his hands. "From my  _dear cousin_."

Hisana's ears prickle at the carefully hidden sound of derision in his voice. Apparently, Byakuya's incredulity extends to the gifts his family extends as well. She doesn't mind it, really—their blatant hatred of her. However, she does feel contrition at the fact that her poor husband labors to spare her feelings. He shouldn't worry with such things. She can take their censor.

Nimble fingers unbind the packaging, and, as the wrapping falls away, all that is left is a weathered leather album. It is a photobook, and, reflexively, Hisana throws back the cover. Her cheeks flush, and she beams up at him. A wide toothy grin parts her lips, and her eyes squeeze shut at the joy of holding a piece of history.

Byakuya, however, does not feel similarly.

"How humiliating," he states, glancing over her shoulder at the pictures.

For once, the gift was not meant to disconcert her. Quite the contrary.

"Oh, Rukia will be so excited."

Immediately, he seizes the material from her hands. "No," he says, hiding the book behind his back.

"Come now, Lord Byakuya. You cannot deprive your wife and heirs of such an adorable piece of your history or the stories that go along with them."

"If by 'adorable,' you mean 'embarrassing,' then I think I am quite within my rights to deny  _everyone_  that privilege."

Hisana gives him a wry glance and shakes her head.

"There will be no pictures, Hisana.  _Or stories._ "

"Please, Lord Byakuya, I beg of you. What other proof will I have to convince the children that you, too, were once a child?"

Cautiously, he returns the album to her, but he makes his dissatisfaction known with a light sigh and a deep scowl.

"You were absolutely adorable," Hisana gushes as she leafs through the photobook. "Come, Lord Byakuya. Regale me with stories of the past." She beseeches him with a sweet smile and a bright, wide-eyed gaze. "They say a picture is worth a thousand words."

It doesn't take much convincing for him to oblige. It never does. Within moments, he kneels to take his evening tea, and he regales her, starting from the first picture and ending at the last. She learns all sorts of family secrets, and, finally, she has faces to go along with names.

Hours go by, and they are lounging on the bed. His arms thread through hers as he finishes the last tale, and she melts blissfully against his chest. Once silence fills the room, she wades through the fantastical stories dancing in her head. Thoughtlessly, she rubs circles across her swollen stomach as her mind latches onto a strange musing. "You mentioned the Sixth Division's Captaincy and Vice Captaincy are traditionally inherited," she says softly, tilting her head back enough to lock eyes with her husband.

Nodding, he responds in the affirmative.

"Is that why you are considering Rukia for the vacancy?"

He flinches. It is quick, almost imperceptible, but she sees it plain as day.

"I'm sorry, is this not an appropriate subject?"

He closes his eyes. "It is one of the reasons," he says at length.

"Are you still considering Rukia?" she asks.

It doesn't matter to her. If she had her druthers,  _neither_  of them would serve their lives up to the military like fresh meat on silver platters. But, she doesn't speak these desires, not to them, not to anyone. She merely listens and tries to patch up the pieces as best as she can.

He hesitates.

It's grave—advanced to a terminal stage—if he's showing signs of apprehension. She swivels in his arms. Her wide eyes fix him, and she tries on her best placating expression. "Is there someone else, milord? Someone you think is better suited for the position?"

"Someone else? Yes. Better suited? No."

"Do you wish to discuss your concerns? I cannot promise that I will understand the extent and intricacies such a decision must entail, but if you think it would prove beneficial…."

His eyes listlessly roam the room, flitting from one wall to the next as if he cannot focus his thoughts. "Rukia will be a Vice Captain in a month's time."

How vague.

"You are unsure whether she will be yours," Hisana murmurs, careful to train the anxiety from her voice.

He closes his eyes as if in defeat.

Hisana has a hunch. "The Thirteenth—that will be her division if you decide on the other candidate."

His eyes flutter open, and he seems slightly taken aback by her reflection. She usually doesn't keep up with such things. "Yes."

She can almost hear the unaired question lingering in the background of his response:  _Where are you going with this, Hisana?_

"Do you think Rukia would adequately serve the Thirteenth?" she asks gently.

"Yes."

"Do you think Rukia would bring honor to the division?"

"Yes."

"Do you think Rukia would be safe under Captain Ukitake's instruction?" The hesitation returns, and she is quick to capitalize on it. "You worry because he is ill."

He doesn't speak a word. Even his breathing goes silent. It is quite likely that he feels answering in the affirmative will betray his loyalty to the good captain. But, it is a reasonable fear. Rukia is young. She's never been a Vice Captain before. She's never seen war or been assigned to active skirmishes. Rukia hasn't had the chance to earn her glory for the simple fact that Soul Society has been at peace.

Hisana studies her husband as he tries to evade her gaze. "Do you think Rukia would adequately serve the Sixth?"

"Yes," he says in a low voice.

"And she would bring honor to your division?"

"She would."

"You are worried about protecting her." It is not a question. It does not require an answer. It is only a hunch. He is free to dispute her logic.

But, he doesn't.

The silence is deafening.

"You are not worried about protecting the other candidate?"

His brows lift at this question. "I am not well acquainted with the other candidate."

"It's Renji," Hisana says, smile breaking across her face.

"How did you know?" His stare softens, and a glimmer of disquiet darkens his gray eyes.

Giving her husband a meaningful onceover, she breaks the tension with a small chuckle. "I saw the paperwork on your desk, milord."

"What do you know of Renji?"

She perks up at this question. Her husband asks it with such eagerness, as if it may influence his assessment of the situation. "He is loyal to Rukia. He's about her same age. He is quick to make friends. Even quicker to anger if someone threatens to harm a friend."

Truth be told, that's all she knows of Rukia's childhood friend. "I don't know if a division that's sole mission is to fight for the love of fighting suits him," she concludes.

Byakuya inclines his head at this last statement.

"I don't know if a division that prides itself of law and order is exactly the place for him, either," she is quick to add.

Her husband grins at her astuteness. She has read his look, and dismissed his unspoken thoughts.

"Do you think it is a place for Rukia?"

Hisana tilts her head as she contemplates his inquiry. "It may be more suitable for her disposition."  _But_ , she cannot help but add, "On the other hand, Renji may bring balance."

"Balance?" Umbrage resonates in his voice.

Of course, her beloved husband would believe his division to be perfectly  _calibrated_  even despite it  _not_  having a Vice Captain.

She stifles the urge to shoot him a teasing glare. It might injure what is left of his delusions of grandeur. "Renji is warmer than Rukia."

" _You find me cold_?" He is quick to point out the inference banging noisily around in her words.

Hisana grins at his indignation. " _Me?_   _Never_ , _milord_. Others, perhaps, may find your temperament a little  _cold_. A little  _calculating_."

He gently leans her back on the futon, as if to suggest her treachery is too much to bear without a quick reprisal. "So Renji is not calculating, then?" he asks, sardonically.

Relishing the sensation of the mattress against her tired back, she flashes a wolfish smile at him. Her hands travel the expanse of his shoulders, and she blushes at the feel of his muscles shifting against her palms. "Renji is a direct soul, milord." Her fingers knot together at the back of his neck, and she urges him closer.

"You know what  _I_  think is the problem?" she asks boldly.

He stares down at her. He doesn't make a sound or a gesture. Perhaps he is aware that her question is purely rhetorical; it is purely made in jest.

With a shy glance, she continues as if her question is none of those things. She lifts her head, and she presses her cheek against his. Her lips are only a hairsbreadth from the shell of his ear when she speaks the answer, "I think milord fancies the color red."

Her gaze lingers for a moment, and, upon seeing his color rise at her suggestion, she drops her head back to the pillow.

Shock stops him for a moment. It heats him. It catches him unawares. But, as the shock clears, he turns her words over in his head.

Maybe she has point.

His eyes fall to her. She lays nestled under him. His body bridges over her. His strong arms keeps him centered. Her gaze, however, drags him down with promises of warmth and well-deserved kisses.

Searchingly, he presses his lips against hers. All the worries fall from his mind, and, unburdened, he breathes easy. His eyelids slip down, and he relishes the sensations of pleasure that his wife manages to tease from him.

_Indeed, he prefers the color red._

* * *

"Abarai!" Momo calls to him.

She sounds excited. Too excited. It clashes with his misery.

Renji stops.  _Just for a moment_ , he tells himself. He has training to do (among other division responsibilities), and he's really in no mood to chit-chat with Momo. He wants desperately to be left alone, but she's a  _friend_ so he makes an attempt to appear sociable.

Mustering the energy, he turns to find not only a cheery-faced Momo but a mildly amused-looking Izuru.

_Great, a two-fer._

"Hey, brighten up, Abarai!" Momo teases before handing him a letter. "You're a Vice Captain, now!"

"Congratulations!" Izuru smiles dimly. There is a secret trapped in Izuru's gaze, and, by the looks of it, Renji doesn't think he wants to know what that secret is.

Renji bows low, formally. "Thank you, Hinamori," he murmurs under his breath. With straight back and level shoulders, he stands, lifts his head, and peels back the seal.

His heart stops. His blood chills. He can barely process the words, but he understands them all the same.

_So this is fate._


End file.
